Ignorance
by Freak-With-Issues
Summary: An addiction is not something that can just be given up, nor does the addict usually want to give it up. So, obviously, helping an addict is difficult, but ignoring their issue is never a good option since it can end with disasterous consequences.


**A/N: **I was having a really shitty day, and this was born. Just a one-shot, unless readers want me to continue it or I choose to.  
><strong>WARNING! <strong>Self-harm and suicide are in this story. Could be triggering.

I have an addiction.

When most people hear that, they think some type of drug. Marijuana, cocaine, ecstasy, heroine, one or more of those or other types of dope. When I tell them my addiction gets me high, but it isn't a drug, their face always contorts in confusions. Then, as if it was obvious, they ask me if it's an eating disorder. I laugh, and tell them if I had one of those I wouldn't be a fat cow. They always ignore that comment, not sure how to handle it, and guess again. Nobody seems to be able to guess that a girl like me would have this type of addiction. It isn't smoking some shit to relieve stress or help me in some other way, it isn't skipping meals or sending those I do eat back into the porcelain throne, but one that destroys me inside and out.

I am addicted to self-harm, and I never plan on stopping. When people finally figure that out-after numerous hints from me and me also flicking my pink hair back so my shirt rides up a little to reveal those ugly little scars-they are completely disgusted. They can't understand why I would do that. Drugs? Fine, they destroy your insides. An eating disorder? Once again, fine. The damage is usually invisible since it's _inside_. Cutting? Oh, no. That won't do. It leaves behind scars, forever reminders of your mistakes. It also mars the little beauty you have, and of course humans are so fucking obsessed with appearance that you have no future with a disfigured body like that.

No one wants a dancer that can't wear scandalous outfits. No one wants a model that can't show some skin in a shoot. No one wants a hero with a disturbing past. No one wants a cutter for a leader, since if they can't fix their problems they can't fix a countries, right? No one wants a partner that they can't show off. No one wants a child that couldn't handle life, so they now have to drown themselves in heavy and oversized clothing to hide their imperfect life and body. To get straight to the point, no one wants a cutter. The damage is external, so it's harder to ignore the signs and just let the person deal with their own issues. You can't ignore the wound, the blood stained clothes that mom washes, the scars all over the cutters body.

Almost every other type of issue is internal, so it can be pushed aside and ignored, but that wasn't what I wanted. I wanted the whole world to know how badly they had fucked me up, but even more of that I needed the pain of each cut to keep me in reality and away from the memories that torture me daily. I was done with making little cuts that didn't bleed much. They didn't hoard away the tears, bruises, screaming, and rape images locked away inside my mind. Those several inch long, half inch deep cuts did, and those were the ones I made.

Until today.

Mom finally decided maybe I wasn't okay. She pulled down my sleeve and asked me what the cuts were. I laughed. I just couldn't help bursting into a fit of giggles. She knew _exactly _what they were. I knew for a fact that more than once she'd found and disposed of my bloody razor blades, the ones meant for woodworking and crafting and not shaving, since they were gone when I got home from school. As I laughed, she had the nerve to ask. "What about the scars?" If I cared about scars, would I have chosen this form of venting! She went on telling me how wrong what I am doing is, most of the reasons having to do with appearance.

So now, sitting in the bathtub with my trusty razor in hand, I've decided I don't want to live in a world like this anymore. I bring the blade up, watch it glint under the dim bathroom light. I glance to my right to see my suicide note, folded neatly. I had to write it several times until my hand had stopped shaking so badly that the writing hadn't been ledgible.

Then, I bring the razor down across my left wrist in a quick stroke, repeating the motion again and again. I grit my teeth as the blood begins to pour from my wounds. I love knowing not only will I die from this, but the bathtub mom always complained I left a scum layer in from being so disgusting would be ruined with blood stains.

Just as the dizziness comes on, my body beginning to sway, I hear the front door slam closed.

_Welcome home._


End file.
